


Constructive Criticism

by ncfan



Series: The House of Finwë in the Years of the Trees [11]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Giving up on dreams, Self-Esteem Issues, Social Issues, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her mother tells her not to expect anything to be published. Anairë tells herself she shouldn't be doing this at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constructive Criticism

Her mother tells her, one day, not to expect anything she writes to ever get published.

"Really, Anairë," Aistindë says, as she winds her long yellow hair into its habitual braid. "You should not raise your hopes; you'll only find them dashed. The attitudes among the Noldor towards female authors is very… _absolute_. I can name only two in the history of our people who have had their works published on a wide scale, and they are both poets."

There is a pregnant pause that follows this, and Anairë can hear the words, even if her mother does not say them— _And your work is not even very good._ That must be it. No one Anairë has shown her work to thinks it's very good. Not her friends, nor her younger brother and sister, and even if the former is not one whose advice Anairë often takes to heart, his rather vehement 'critiques' only cement the feeling in her chest. What she labors over does not reflect the effort she has put into it.

Anairë loves writing. She is young still, and her parents tell her that as she grows, her interests may very well change, but she has loved writing since she knew how to write, and the words flow from her mind to the parchment in front of her. Anairë has no great skill in nor love for weaving, the making of tapestries, sewing, singing, dancing, the making of music, or many of the other things that everyone agrees that nissi should enjoy. Sometimes, she wonders why that is. She wonders why she is different from her sister, her mother, her grandmothers and so many of her female friends. She wonders why she alone is different, why she alone isn't normal.

It would probably be easier to bear if she could at least say that her writing is good.

It's not. That much is the truth. The best that can be said of Anairë's writing is that she has beautiful handwriting, graceful and flowing; that much, and nothing else, she will defend. Anairë writes poetry, one of the few branches of writing not considered strange for a nís to pursue—truth be told, it's not exactly frowned upon, not publicly, for nissi to pursue writing as a pastime or a hobby, but it is as a career and even as far as hobbies go, it is considered strange. She writes limericks when bored and constrains herself to a very particular meter and rhyme scheme when she wants a challenge. Anairë looks at the finished product and often ends up balling up her piece of parchment and lobbing it in the waste bin. The tiny, misshapen pictures she drew in the margins to pass the time have more life and sincerity.

Anairë writes prose, fiction mostly—the chronicles have already covered history so thoroughly that she does not see anything of value she could add to it. She writes short stories that make no sense, novellas whose plots lead to nowhere and leaves so many threads hanging at the end that one could operate a puppet from them. She writes romance so silly and unrealistic that anyone who had ever been in a relationship of their own would scoff at it, or simply be sickened—and indeed, once Anairë herself is married, she looks back on the romance she wrote as a girl and feels her stomach churn.

Anairë writes in secret, like it is some secret, shameful thing. It must be, considering that none of her friends have even a passing interest in writing, nor do they know any girl who does. As time passes by, she stops advertising to anyone that she likes to write. If something is treated like a shameful secret, that is what it will become, and Anairë shares her secret with no one, not anymore. Love is tainted with shame.

Eventually, she puts her quill away, closes her inkpot and folds her parchment neatly away. Her parents assume that she has lost interest in writing, and Anairë tells herself that she has, so it won't feel like so much of a lie when she tries other things.

She already knows how to sew and weave; her mother was very insistent on teaching her and her sister how to do that. After that, Anairë tries to learn how to sing, how to dance. She tries to learn how to play the flute, the harp, the lyre, tries to find something, anything that she can learn to play, anything that is within her ability to learn.

Anairë puts her quill and inkpot away, and learns all the things that a proper young lady is supposed to learn, tries to write normality into her mind, her personality, her spirit. If she can find common ground with her sister, her mother, her grandmothers, all of her female friends, surely she will be happier, and surely, it will cease to matter that what was once her great love, she has left by the wayside. Surely, it will cease to matter.

Anairë counts stitches. She counts notes. She counts her steps. She will never be an expert weaver or broideress, never be an expert musician, never be an expert dancer, but she practices so diligently that she can at least call herself passable. She wins praise from her maternal grandmother when Malinairë comes to visit from Taniquetil for her dancing, and her music, and her mother can find no fault with her needlework. She learns to do the things that every other girl her age seems to love, that every other girl she knows claims to love. She does not write, except to write letters, and does not let her hand or sleeve become ink-stained. Anairë practices smiling in mirrors, practices until her smile is wide enough for her liking, until no one seems to think that it is false anymore.

Sometimes, in between stitches, in between notes, in between steps, she wonders, had her work had been any good, if she would have given up as easily as she did.

**Author's Note:**

> Nissi—women (singular: nís)


End file.
